A Very Palpable Hit
by IronyRocks
Summary: Post-"A Scandel in Belgravia." Irene, Sherlock, and an empty room.


The weeks leading up to her (stayed) execution had been fairly mundane, believe it or not.

Despite the price on her head from various players in the world – organized crime lords, business tycoons, rich patrons, royalty and politicians alike – she had managed to carve out a small place to hide for a few solid months. Irene had always enjoyed the company of the powerful, but there was something to be said about the benefits of the working class and she hid amongst them for a while in a quiet villa in the eastern corner of Sicily. When the climate changed towards the end of the summer, the general heat pushed most tourists to the coast. She used her various talents to ensure everyone kept her presence a secret, mainly by trading in the fact that she knew what they liked – and everybody had a kink, even if they had yet to discover it until they met one Irene Adler. It was one of the constants in the universe, one of the few that she had left.

It was mid-August morning when Irene told her servants that she was driving into the city for business. She could only afford to spend one or two nights there, and she had her servants all well trained to keep their questions to themselves.

In the city, she attended a convention for rich businessmen, with no real business to be done. She said "attended," but mostly she sat in the lobby and watched the company gather for their meetings – men in their overpriced suits, with briefcases that their wives had given them for Christmas; women with their pencil skirts and high heels – they all smiled and nodded at her as she sat at the bar. During lunch, a few men approached her, swirled brandy in their glasses, stared at her breasts, lied to her face about the importance of their job and probably thought about how they would love to bend her over and fuck her right there at the bar. And Irene just sat, smiling when they did, nodding when they did, mentally stripping each mark of their defenses, able to pick them apart and come up with the exact phrase, look, or combination thereof that would have them spilling their darkest secrets and opening their checkbooks to her within the nightfall.

The entire time, she was bored silly.

She could've picked them clean of corporate secrets and business plans and petty personal lies. Irene never underestimated the value of intelligence gathering, but starting from scratch left a foul taste in her mouth, and every man or woman she saw left her comparing them to Sherlock, weighed and measured and found wanting. She could have left this recruitment of new clientele to another time, but the truth was she had been bored to distraction, and that was where she must have slipped up. Careful as she had been the past few months, a girl like her was bound to seek entertainment in some form – and really, if there was ever to be a downfall to her reign, she rather it be of her own making than someone else's. In any case, someone must've seen her and recognized her – and then, _whoops_. The cat was out of the bag, then.

All good secrets come to an end.

Two days later, she was in an empty hanger in Iran, her hair done up in a bun under her hijab, a man on either side of her, one of which was instructing her to kneel on the floor. And she kneel she did, though it was a position she was unaccustomed to, usually the one to order the act rather than obey it. She had one last request – a simple text message.

Irene was unfamiliar with the concept of sentiment, even now, even as she recognized the ailments and how she suffered from them. Sherlock was right. It was her downfall, and strange – funny, even – how she wasn't _angry_ with him over it. Instead, with fingertips that were well-manicured and trembling, she typed the buttons quickly: _Goodbye Mr. Holmes._

It truly was such a foolish thing.

A second later, a familiar moan echoed through the hanger, and Irene looked up in recognition. "When I tell you," said Sherlock, standing over her. "Run."

And she smiled as he swung out with his machete, thinking, _yes, indeed. Such a foolish thing, this sentiment business._

* * *

><p>"So," Irene said, the first thing she could think of when the bodies were left slain bloody on the floor. "Dinner?"<p>

Sherlock helped her to her feet and ushered her out the door without much fanfare, though he did admonish her briefly without breaking stride. "A business conference in Italy? I expected you to be more discreet than that."

"Lack of discretion was always going to be my downfall," Irene replied easily. "Besides, the boredom became too much."

He moved swiftly down an empty corridor, no further admonishment to be had because she suspected that boredom was an ailment he suffered frequently. There was a car waiting outside, not for them, but Sherlock didn't let that stop him. He disarmed the driver with a blow to the head, and Irene quickly took the passenger seat, sliding the hijab back off her head and running her fingers messily through her hair. The bun came undone.

"You should keep that on until we get to the safehouse," Sherlock told her.

"You should drive fast," Irene countered.

And off they went, a pithy thought given to Bonnie and Clyde, before she was watching the scenery of her supposed execution recede into the horizon through the rearview mirror.

"There's a duplicate body," Sherlock announced.

Irene blinked, briefly uncertain, and a second later caught up with the thought that Sherlock had answered before she had even questioned: a duplicate body for her, giving Irene Adler an firm alibi of a certain death; she knew without questioning that Sherlock would do a thorough job of making sure the body was convincing. Twice, now, Irene Adler had died. Funny how she should have been more emotionally affected by it, but mostly she thought, in a rather detached way, how this time there would be no funeral. No one to watch her body – or the equivalent of it – being lowered into the ground, a mournful tear or two shed in light of a life cut too short.

"So, amaze me," Irene said, inching closer to him as he drove down the empty road through stark blackness. There was nothing around for miles. "How did you find me?"

He hesitated for a beat. "When you left yourself open in Italy, there were a number of bidders for the information of your whereabouts, but the winning bid was solicited through a single phone call. I was able to acquire a rough copy. The speaker said only one thing: the price they were willing to pay for you."

"How much did I go for?" she asked curiously.

"Twenty-four point six million pounds."

She feigned a frown. "That's all? I was expecting the Sultan to go twice that amount. Go on, then. If you only had the price to go off of, how did you know where to find me?"

"There was an adhān in the background, a Muslim call to prayer recited by the muezzin at prescribed times of the day. Sunrise, noon, afternoon, sunset and at a given time just before one should retire to bed. Considering the heavy accent of the bidder, and the fact that you can hear these calls to prayer across cities and towns in primarily Middle Eastern countries, I calculated the timezone differences between Italy and the majority of Middle East countries. I gathered it was an adhān before the Fajr pre-dawn prayers. Each country and region has its own specific times for prayers depending on the precise timings of the sunrise at their location. Eliminating a few variables based on the regional Arabic accent of the speaker, there was only one country that had Fajr prayers at precisely 6:43 a.m. on the date of the teleconference. Iran. After that, it was just a matter of cross-referencing your known clientele with those in that country and tracking down the interested parties."

"Oh, I could just ride you until your legs buckled," she purred into his ear.

He kept driving, silent and seemingly unaffected by her admission, but Irene smiled and sat back in her seat, pleased. Besides, her eyes hadn't been the only one that had dilated that fateful night in his flat – and they both knew it.

* * *

><p>Their first meeting, nearly a year ago at this point, across the warm waters of the Mediterranean Sea and up through the Atlantic, in her lofty flat on the south end near the borough of Kensington and Chelsea, encountering Sherlock Holmes' mind had felt as invigorating as an orgasm. Brainy was the new sexy, but he had been easy enough for Irene to throw off, stumbling him in a way that she had enjoyed ever-so-much. Obviously, he hadn't been the first man she had left unconscious on the floor, or the first she had left blabbering away when she'd insinuated something scandalous with a flirty comment or two – but their second meeting. Their second meeting, she had slipped into his bedroom while he slept off the effects of her drugs, and she had had the opportunity to study him.<p>

She had tucked the corners of his blanket around him, left his jacket hanging on the hook behind the bedroom door, the phone slipped into his inside-left pocket; she'd pressed a small kiss to the corner of his lips, and left without much conversation in passing, rather pleased that she had the privilege of seeing Sherlock Holmes in a position few ever had – in bed and vulnerable. She liked the recipe of that, and she'd decided long ago that she would have him in that combination as much as humanly possible, given the chance.

One thing she hadn't counted on was her feelings, and as insufferable as they were, she wouldn't have given them up for anything. It tipped the scale a bit, leaving her without the normal element of uncontested control she usually wielded, but it wasn't so extreme and daunting either. Irene was a woman that often stormed out into unadventured territory, and what was Sherlock Holmes if not that?

Sherlock's safehouse was quiet and a bit run-down, with only a few pieces of furniture to adorn the small space. A bed to one side, barely big enough for two, a rug that ran the length of the tiled floor, a small round table set at one side with two tin glasses and a pitcher for water, and the wall was adorned with only one oil painting full of geometric shapes and figures. There was a washroom down at the other end of the room, separated not even by a door but a hanging string of beads that served as a curtain.

"We can stay here for the night," Sherlock assured her, "but the boat leaves early morning and will necessitate you traveling in some uncomfortable accommodations. I hope you don't mind the smell of livestock. You're going to be spending some time with them."

She flinched, offered him a scathing look because he knew exactly how detestable she'd find such accommodations, then paused. She studied him by the low light of the one flickering candlelight. "Just me? What about you?"

"The longer we stay together, the more suspicion we draw. Besides, I've only got the alibi in place for my absence for the next twenty-seven hours. Beyond that, John will notice."

She kept quiet for a beat, then asked, "Drink?"

He pointed to the cupboard behind her, where Irene rummaged and found a single bottle of whiskey. She used the small tin glasses meant for water, and poured both him and herself a stiff drink. She passed one glass over to Sherlock, who took it and immediately set it on the bedside table, removing the Arabian shemagh off his head. The casual shalwar kameez he wore underneath was simple and black, but he looked so out of place in it, especially with the makeup that had tinted his skin a darker tone. She thought about teasing him about missing his infamous hat, before she changed her mind and decided it was too predictable a comment.

She took an indulgent sip of her drink, then tilted her glass slowly, letting the last of the whiskey run in an amber circle around the bottom.

"You're quiet," he observed.

"Don't be obvious, Mr. Holmes. It doesn't suit you."

She set her drink down on the table, and went for the washroom. The curtain of beads made a rustle of noise as she pushed them aside and entered the facilities. The light flickered on and off briefly before staying on, and Irene looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, bereft of any color except what her natural skin provided. She had already removed her hijab, but she was still wearing the full-length gown. Quickly, with a lift of one hand, she disrobed. She wasn't wearing much underneath but a sliver of underwear and a thin white bra, and she unhooked the latter and stepped out of the former swiftly. Left nude in the bright florescent light, Irene studied herself again.

She was aware that the curtain of beads weren't much in the way of a barrier between the bedroom and bathroom, and that Sherlock, if he wanted, could very easily see her in full form. Not that he hadn't already committed her measurements to memory, but even she could tell with a mere glance that she had lost weight. The stresses of living on the lamb had started weighing on her long before she'd been captured just outside her villa. She hated not being able to move freely, but she supposed, if Sherlock had indeed set up her murder efficiently – and it went without question that he had – then she could afford to resume her lifestyle once again under another name.

Irene wasn't as pleased about that as she'd anticipated. She wondered if there was anything in that moment, actually, that could make her any bit _less_ pleased, but luckily for her, a distraction of the most attractive kind was nearby.

There was a silk robe hanging on a hook nearby, and though she wasn't at all opposed to the idea of stepping back out into the bedroom naked, she always hated to repeat herself. So, she slipped on the robe and reentered the bedroom to find Sherlock half in the middle of changing. He had wiped away the makeup, donned on some dark slacks, and his shirt was on but completely undone, a row of unfastened buttons leaving his chest and abdomen exposed. Irene smiled, circled around him, and grabbed the two ends of his shirt, drawing them closed. She watched him watch her as she slowly began buttoning up his shirt, from the bottom to the top, her fingers nimble and quick as she worked her way up.

"Why did you do it?" she asked him, finally.

"If you're referring to tonight and my decision to save you, you shouldn't be flattered."

"Really?" She paused, spying his scarf lying discarded on the bed. She bent to pick it up, then wrapped it around his neck, once, then twice, then clinched in tightly, visions of autoerotic asphyxiation flittering only briefly through her mind. "Do you know, I once knew a minister that had weekly sermons on the virtues of celibacy and the purity of the soul. You know what I learned from him? He liked to _bark_ when I spanked him."

Sherlock was watching her with barely a flicker of emotion on his face. "Don't tell me. I'm the barking man in this scenario, hopelessly protesting against my true motives?"

"Methinks the lady doth protests too much."

"Barking man or protesting lady," Sherlock replied, trying for bored. "Do at least pick one of the two, and stick with it."

She laughed, enjoying this. He was dressed again, but she liked it that way because the fantasy of undressing Sherlock was too irresistible – untangling his scarf, undoing the buttons and pushing his shirt back off his lean shoulders. Kissing the sharp edge of his jaw, down his neck, while she flicked open the buttons of his trousers. A girl could spend hours on that fantasy.

He knew what she was thinking, judging by the way his brow burrowed, a look of curiosity and fascination marring his features. She liked being the one woman that threw him, because even now, he didn't know how to handle her or what to make of her. He'd been given an upper hand when he'd deduced her feelings for him were genuine, but Irene still felt in control because it was just him and her in a bedroom now, and that had always been her domain.

She sat down on the mattress, legs crossed at the ankles, a smile fixed on her lips. "So, we have the entire night to ourselves – you and me. When you set this all up, what was that big, sexy brain of yours imagining we'd be doing to pass the time?"

"Jim Moriarty," he said.

That neatly threw a cold bucket of water on the evening.

"Oh," she managed, recovering quickly. "Is he available for a threesome? I wasn't aware."

"Tell me everything you know about him."

"It'll be a short if impressive list," Irene countered. "He's just as brilliant as you are, and infinitely more devious. Moriarty likes chess, you know. Compared what the two of you do to a game. _On ne joue pas aux échecs avec un bon cœur._"

"One cannot play at chess if one is kind-hearted," Sherlock translated easily.

"He said that a chessplayer cannot resist the fascination of sacrifice, since a passion for sacrifice is part of the very appeal of the game. He said that would always be your undoing, in the end. You wouldn't be able to stand the sacrifice."

"Adequate compensation for a sacrifice is having a sound combination leading to a winning position," Sherlock returned, staring with a cool, calculating look. "Adequate compensation for a blunder is having your opponent snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. I imagine he likes to give the impression that he knows everything, but he's underestimating me quite a bit."

"Is he? I may not have a mind for deductions like you or him, but I do know the nature of a man. I know you, Mr. Holmes, and you may act indifferent and apart. Have the world fooled all you want, but when you go ahead and do acts like travel halfway across the globe to save a girl from a beheading – well, what's a girl supposed to deduce from that?"

Sherlock paused, staring at her for a lengthy beat. "Sentiment," he responded lowly.

A hit. A very palpable hit.

She stood, bringing them toe-to-toe. In the faint flicker of candlelight, it was amazing she could see with such clarity. The sharp cheekbones, rakish hair, dark lashes, slender body – almost sinuous. Rather a gorgeous sight altogether. It amazed her that other people looked at Sherlock and saw a cold, aloof man, because when she looked at him, the sight just seemed to _burn_ her with intensity. Other people were fools.

There was a knock at the door.

"That'll be dinner," Sherlock announced.

"I'm not hungry," Irene answered, and then leaned forward to kiss him.

Disjointed internal dialogue ran through her head. She had played seductress a thousand times before, but she knew with Sherlock, a more direct approach would yield better results. A beat ticked by, then two, as she pressed one hand against his chest and the other cupping him around the base of his neck. She felt the stiffness of his lips – not shock, because he had seen what was coming a mile away as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning; she hadn't been remotely coy in her actions. And while his hesitation was there, it passed a beat later with a slight movement of his lips.

His mouth opened to hers, tongue slipping in and toying, and Irene sunk into him. His hands brushed up her sides, landing at her shoulders, and a part of her had been wandering if he'd want this, want _her_; she never did get an answer to her question that night, about whether he'd ever had anyone. And despite the singular nature of his relationship with John, Irene knew intimacy was a thing that was absent from most, if not all, of his life.

But she got her answer in spades when he grew more confident in his touch, adept if not experienced, quick on the uptake just as she knew he'd be. There was nothing sweet and subtle about this kiss. It was all wet lips and hot tongues and just a little bit of teeth. Irene felt the thrill of affirmation, as if everything she'd always suspected had been proven right with just this one kiss.

She didn't waste time. Pushing him back, he collapsed on the mattress and she climbed on top, never breaking the kiss as she straddled him. Her hands were in his hair, arms around his shoulders, and his palms were at her back, rubbing the silk gown up and down, lifting the material indecently high so it exposed the fact that she had nothing on underneath.

"Tell me, Mr. Holmes," she breathed in his ear, softly, teasing. "Is this how you deduced the night would go?"

In response, he kissed her again, exploring her with hands and tongues and just as much intensity as she could stand. She'd seen Sherlock's fast, clever fingers work on the violin, texting on mobile phones, the dexterity and uses for them only all too apparent, but they felt infinitely more skillful tangled in her hair. She imagined this might've been academic for him, another experimentation of his – the experiment of sex, and who better than to test it with than a woman with her expertise? But she knew, deep down, for either one of them, this wasn't about scratching a mere itch, or doing due diligence in the exploration of a curiosity. Oh, no. This moment, right here, came down to that bloody sentiment that both of them should have been far too intelligent to fall for.

He kissed his way down to her neck, tugging the gown so it flooded open and dipped around her shoulders. Sherlock's right index finger hooked around the material and gradually tugged it down past her sternum, exposing her breasts, her nipples hardening against the splash of cool air. He paused for a beat, just studying them, then dragged his mouth across the swell of her breast before taking the weight of it into his mouth. She curved like a bow into his touch, his tongue flickering out and toying with her nipple and Irene released an involuntary noise.

"My, my," she said in pleasure. "You're a fast learner."

"That experience is somehow of greater value than simple competence," Sherlock replied, disdainfully. "Besides, 183 IQ," he added, just a bit cheekily, causing her to laugh. "I don't play on the normal learning curve."

"Oh, of course. Of course."

She shoved him back so that he lay across the mattress. Sherlock held her hips, steadying her on his lap, and time passed, measurable only in the number of kisses and the hardening press she could feel against her thigh. He rose to suck at her neck, all pressure and wetness, while pushing aside the last of her gown so it fell to the side. Despite the earlier fantasy, she found herself frustrated that he was bundled up in all those layers – and wasn't that always the case? That fantasy failed to live up to reality? She had a moment to reflect on the thought while unstringing his scarf and tossing it aside, unbuttoning his trousers, before Sherlock was capturing her attention again, almost as if to prove her wrong, because he scrapped his fingers down her backside, cupping her arse, and Irene moaned.

Oh, how she wanted to do _so many_ dirty things to him. She didn't have any of props with her: no riding crop, no handcuffs or blindfolds, no whips or straps or dildos, no collars and no leashes.

No matter, though. With Sherlock, she wouldn't need any of that.

She dug into his skin hard enough to bruise, and Sherlock made a grunting noise but not the protesting kind – and she knew the difference. Some part of her wondered if anyone else would ever notice if she left marks on his body; not John, not likely. But Mycroft was the observant type, and Irene would very much like to leave clues on his body, that she had _been_ here, done things to this impossible genius that others couldn't claim. Sherlock would no doubt cover up the tellings of such marks, but Irene liked the thought anyway. Oftentimes, she'd inflict pain more for the pleasure of the recipient rather than for her own indulges, but Irene liked the idea of leaving her mark on Sherlock. She wanted it to hurt a little because sentiment, or love, or whatever this thing between them could be called – it _hurt_, more than just a little. It hurt a lot.

She straddled him, rocking her hips against his and Sherlock's breath hitched and broke off with a strangled moan. She saw the expression on Sherlock's face, his cool gaze taking in every detail, observing every move. Their bodies were separated by his boxers and undone trousers, and the stroke of his erection against her, hard and arousing, filled her with a sense of imbibed power. She rocked her hips again and the friction built as Irene set a slow sway, hips rotating, grinding; the tension quickly mounting a thing that was agonizing and deviously erotic. The movement was empowering, because as she rocked, his breathing became broken and ragged and _heavy._

"Do you think it curious?" she asked him.

"What?" said the man that was always curious or bored, and never anything in between. "You'll have to be more specific than that, seeing as the variables on that question could be infinite and I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment."

"Our story. I've known loads of men and women my entire life, some of them for years, yet we've met only a handful of times. And you… it doesn't make sense, does it?"

She realized she didn't want an answer to the question, so she chocked off his words by kissing him again. She got him undressed fairly quickly, given how wrapped up they were in each other. When he was naked, she flattened the base of her palms onto the muscles of his stomach and felt them contract with his breathing, then smoothed her palms across his hips. He shivered just once, or not even a shiver, it was more a vibration of muscles he couldn't control, so she did the opposite of what he craved and made him sweat a bit. Her touch became lighter and lighter yet, hands rising off his skin till it was just her fingers, then her fingers lifting till it was the tips, and then the tips running up and down the inside of his thighs until she probably had him feeling ghost-touches that weren't even there.

Though she had yet to train him to endure a little teasing, because he retaliated by moving his weight, rolling them onto their sides, and wasting no time before trapping her underneath his body.

"Lay back," he instructed.

He sat up, and normally she wasn't one to take orders in bed, but nevertheless she trusted him – that was the point of this entire night, she supposed – and so she moved to lay on her back, stretched out in front of him on that pathetic excuse of a flimsy bed.

Without any dilly-dallying he went straight for her clit, rubbing her between her folds, and Irene's body jolted with pleasure and she moaned – the same type of moan that echoed every time she sent him a text message. His eyes flashed with recognition, then he leaned over her, nuzzling the flesh of her inner thigh, teasing her slightly, evidently to repay the small torture she'd put him through just minutes before.

A few moments of light kisses and caresses left Irene impatience and frustrated, but she refused to let it show – though he saw through it, apparently, because he threw her a knowing smirk. She imagined some part of his brain was still engaged in cataloging the details of this all – tactile sensation, body heat, perspiration, heart rate, breathing, smell – just how _wet_ she was getting. The last one made her grin.

Then he swiftly ran his tongue, long and hot, right across her folds, and she lost all thought. She didn't manage to swallow her moan, though the attempt had been there. Her breath hitched, held, and then doubled. He darted his tongue quickly against the swollen flesh over and over again, the flat of his tongue pressing firmly against her. She started to writhe underneath him, thighs clenching and hips rising to rotate against his mouth. He circled in a steady counter-clockwise motion like he'd already figured out what she liked, even as he pumped two fingers in and out of her with long strokes, a rhythm of quick withdrawal and then forceful return. He pressed her hips down with his hand, settling heavily with his mouth buried between her thighs. He continued to ride his tongue across her clit, against her flesh, and she was half-aware of the small, incoherent noises coming from the back of her throat.

She came hard, the swift cry of pleasure escaping as her muscles spasmed around him.

"Well done, Mr. Holmes," she purred, afterwards, breathing heavily.

He moved up her body, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and stretched up to kiss him. He pressed his body down against the entire long, lean line of hers, until he had to pull his mouth away to pant against her cheek. "I think," he breathed out, "given the circumstances, you can use my given name."

"Oh, but I do so like calling you Mr. Holmes, like you're a schoolteacher and I've misbehaved. Punish me some _more_, Mr. Holmes."

He didn't waste much more time, taking a hold of his cock, positioning himself with a shaky grip, and slammed into her with more force than was probably polite. She gave a small grunt as the air left her lungs, but otherwise approved of the pleasurepain. Breathing thick and heavy in the air, she watched him work in and out of her, their bodies winding each other up, and Irene almost didn't care about coming herself. She wanted his release more, wanted to work pleasure through his body until he surrendered completely to her. He was a master of the mind, and she the body – and this? This was her province. The need was possessive.

"Harder," she told him, "fuck, oh fuck, _harder_," squirming restlessly, shifting hips here, there, and then he hit the spot, just the right place, "there, there, there," she whispered out. He pounded into her, keeping at it. Thrusting into her, he swallowed her moan with his mouth, kissing her deep and long and hard, matching his thrusts to the same tempo.

She needed more control, though, so she rolled them over in bed so she was on top again. Irene braced herself against the mattress, rode herself against him, winding a hand in his hair to wrench his head back so she could suck at the hollow of his throat. His perfect, graceful throat with lines that Michelangelo couldn't draw. He dug his fingers into her hips, thrusting up into her. Her arms moved to brace against the mattress on either side of him, holding her upright, his face inches apart from hers, breasts rubbing against his chest.

Movement became erratic as they neared the end, and then Sherlock came with a deep groan against her salty skin, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. He collapsed back onto the mattress, breathing heavy and sweat soaked, but Irene had yet to come and didn't care to stop, using the last bit of friction between their bodies to push her that last little bit to release. "There, there, almost there," she gasped, desperately, until his fingers joined the pursuit and rubbed her clit, and she _came_.

She collapsed on top of him, sweat-soaked and boneless, blissed out, and for once, she was fairly sure Sherlock Holmes was thinking not a thing. Not one bloody thing except for the feel of her on top of him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock wasn't one for cuddling, not that she had expected it. Still, they used the rest of the night for another go-around, twice over. Morning soon rose, and when it was time to part ways, as far as Irene was concerned, this was hardly over. Their story had just begun, so many chapters yet unwritten. She liked the thought of that.<p>

"So," she said, standing in front of the large cargo boat about to set sail. "One word of advice before I leave. Be careful of Moriarty. He has plans for you. I don't know what, but he's been thinking about it for a while."

"He scares you," Sherlock observed.

She paused, then admitted, "Yes."

"It was his idea for you to use me, wasn't it?"

She paused, remembering the speech Mycroft had given him in the middle of a jumbo-jet plane. _"The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle, and watch him dance."_ As much as it pained her now to admit it, that had never been Moriarty's idea. It had always been her own.

She hadn't expected to fall for her own ruse, though.

She pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, lingering only for a second. "Until the next time, Mr. Holmes."

"I look forward to it, Miss Adler," he returned.

She walked up the ramp towards the boat, head held high, and never once glanced back.

* * *

><p>Fin<p> 


End file.
